


Where Skin Surrenders

by BitchOfTheWaste



Category: Howl no Ugoku Shiro | Howl's Moving Castle, Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fat fetish, sensory play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27465574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitchOfTheWaste/pseuds/BitchOfTheWaste
Summary: Howl touches the power which lies sleeping within the Witch, and in turn it reaches back to brush its claws against his soul.
Relationships: Howl Pendragon/Witch of the Waste
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Where Skin Surrenders

He can feel her power when he cups her breast. It reaches greedily for him as his thumb brushes the permeable flesh of her nipple, turning away from its slow suckling at the eroding surface of her bones, its snail-like rasping in search of hot marrow. His pulse jumps with excitement as he snatches his hand back from its molten tendrils of ethereal current. Nothing has thrilled him like this, this ravenous demon that squirms and hisses inside her, in years. By her smug, catlike smirk he can tell that she knows, that she delights in his fascination and his fear. He lifts one heavy breast off of her belly’s topmost roll, soft flesh spilling between his fingers, and it feels like gripping a live wire. He can hardly unclench his jaw to meet her mouth as her plump little hands drag his lips down to hers. A rush of mingled breath. Skin to skin. Tongues sliding over tooth and gum. The nerves in his face prickle, sting, and start to burn.

She shifts under him, powerful constrictor muscles flexing beneath her luxurious fatness. Upper arms like steel cables sheathed in pillows. Long torso, belly pooled at her flaring hips, jagged purple striae painting the cream-pale skin. Lightning frozen in the sky. Skin at the point of surrender to the weight and pressure of her. He takes fistfuls of the flesh below her armpits where her rolls cascade, shifting against the dark sheets with the rocking of her hips, and feels the power moving just under her skin, licking at his palms with eager curiosity. He used to think it was the demon that had given her this body, towering a head and a half taller than his own and easily four times his weight, but the first time he touched her he knew it was her own creation. She wants to look this way. Craves the force and presence of it. 

“Stupid boy,” she husks in his ear. Her tongue is rough against his cartilage, like a cat’s. It probes the canal’s mouth and he shivers, thighs clenching around her soft middle, the mound of her belly between his legs and the dark, slightly sour smell of her deep navel in his nostrils. He’s so hard it hurts to move against her yielding flesh, near-translucent skin shifting gently over his rigid shaft. Beneath his narrow buttocks he can feel the wet heat of her cunt, a furnace glow that frightens him as much as it excites. The demon can come closer there. The power can sink its claws into his body, leap from sex to sex and burn him alive from the inside out. The thing inside her wants him. In a way, he knows, that’s why he’s here. To rest a finger in death’s jaws.

_ Stupid boy. _

She strains to touch herself around him, a long sigh escaping her as her fingers delve and plunge in hot tallow and coarse black hair. She leaves a streak of wetness on his thigh as she draws back her hand and reaches up to force two fingers past his lips. He hears the wingbeats of the moths eating the drapes in her abandoned castle. One lands on his back and rests there, the creak of its wing rising and falling like the beat of some rheumatic heart. He sees the veins that lace her arm, the motion of her muscles as she draws him flush against her and rolls over, crushing him beneath her weight, flesh pouring over him in a soft tide. He spills against her belly with a scream as her thighs squeeze his hips tight enough that bone grinds against bone. And then the thing has him, the burning hands racing along his ejaculation, digging up through the root of his cock and seizing hold— 

Annihilating darkness. His flesh scraped from his skull, the muscles of his face plucked from their moorings, nerve endings blown out one by one like so many miswired fuses. Is it orgasm or death? Climax or unmaking? He’s not sure, as his jaw falls open, teeth spilling from his ruined mouth on a wash of dark blood, that a difference remains. Is her nipple at his lips? It burns. So hot he can hardly breathe. Is he still alive? What is that yanking at his belly button where they cut him from his mother? A dark hook of cold power slicing through his stomach, spilling his half-frozen viscera, and she is eating him, licking the blood from the delicate bulbs of his kidneys, slitting his lungs with those perfect oval nails and slurping gory mucous from their ruin. Fistfuls yanked out of his spread rib cage.

She’s taking something. He should stop her, but her weight has him pinned and the power moving through him is all he has the strength to feel. He may already be dead, for all he knows, his hair burned away to ash and his skin flash-fried to crackling perfection over raw and oozing flesh. He sucks at her breast. He holds her tight and feels the muscles in her shoulders flex like tectonic plates gliding under the vast weight of the earth. And then he’s on the floor, blood dribbling down his chin, so weak he can hardly push himself up onto his hands and knees. “Why don’t you go?” she says. She’s sitting up in bed, banishing the mess he left smeared across her navel with a pettish wave of one small hand that sends ripples through the fresh cream of her bulk. Flakes of translucent semen drift lazily through the air. “I’m tired of you.”

She’s lying, he thinks, faculties flickering one by one back to unsteady life as he drags himself naked to his feet, clinging to a broken mirror’s frame for support. She’s lying, but when her dark gaze slides back toward him, hunger warring with a kind of mournful need, he runs, crashing through tapestries and drapes, bringing down hangers and bars in his wake and sending the moths flying this way and that, and then through the rotten filigree doors of the balcony and out, out, up, into the air, pulling boots and trousers out of nothing, fabric racing the goosebumps over his bare skin, and still the memory of that hand inside him, of the tightness in his body as she touched the empty place in his pale breast, where she had thought to find a heart.


End file.
